


worst (of the worst)

by norikae



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Jeon Wonwoo-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:03:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norikae/pseuds/norikae
Summary: “Wait,” Junhui says suddenly, voice cutting through the buzz. “Don’t I get a say in this?”They all turn to look at him – even Mingyu opens an eye and tips his head upwards. Wonwoo discreetly massages his sore shoulder. “Sorry?”“Don’t I get a say,” Junhui repeats, enunciation extremely clear. His glass is full. “You can’t just say that and not do it, Wonwoo.”-Alternatively: Wonwoo bites off more than he can chew.





	worst (of the worst)

**Author's Note:**

> title and overall inspiration from florence + the machine's big god (im sorry im so predictable)... not proofread because this took long enough as it is and if i don't post it now i never will. anyway remember to vote for jun and minghao on cyzj (tutorials [here](https://twitter.com/i/moments/1020343991961710592) and i also have a giveaway running for ppl who vote for juni....haha)
> 
> otherwise... this was very much an exploration (i am still trying to get into writing properly) and there are definitely parts i am very unsure about... i hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

It starts like this:

“So, Wonwoo,” Mingyu’s saying, leaning forward shakily, face flushed from one too many beers. He pauses for a moment, squinting like it’s going to help him hear himself better. “Who, who here would you kiss?” When he finishes the sentence he smiles proudly, and promptly rests his head on Wonwoo’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed at his achievement.

“Hey,” Jihoon objects mildly, from across the circle. “This was gonna be my question.”

Wonwoo shifts his shoulder a little bit, because Mingyu’s oversized head is heavy, and picks up his Coke. “Yeah, you go, then.”

Jihoon shrugs, knocking back his glass in the same action. “Ah, hell. Go with Gyu’s. Who’s it?”

“Hmm.” Wonwoo looks around lazily, weighing each of his friends in turn. There’s Mingyu, Soonyoung, Jihoon, Seungcheol, Joshua, all smiling gamely (Soonyoung, in particular, is pouting) and – he carefully averts his gaze. “…Junhui.”

 “Oh.” Jihoon sounds surprised, but in a mundane fashion, like if you found out someone’s favourite colour wasn’t blue like you’d thought it was. “Okay then. Your turn.”

“Wait,” Junhui says suddenly, voice cutting through the buzz. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

They all turn to look at him – even Mingyu opens an eye and tips his head upwards. Wonwoo discreetly massages his sore shoulder. “Sorry?”

“Don’t I get a say,” Junhui repeats, enunciation extremely clear. His glass is full. “You can’t just _say_ that and not _do it,_ Wonwoo.”

He isn’t sure what’s written on his own face, but Seungcheol’s intercepting, now, starting with a laugh half a size too big and a “The question was hypothetical, Junnie, you can’t just –“

“Alright.” Wonwoo takes the drink he wasn’t aware he’d been forgetting, then shuffles into a kneel, dusting his pants off. Next to him, Mingyu makes a small, dissatisfied noise, and topples the other way onto Soonyoung instead. “Let’s have at it, then.”

He dimly registers Seungcheol’s small squeak of _guys?_ and someone – probably Joshua – gently pulling him back down to sit, but it’s secondary to the way Junhui is looking at him, eyes wide and dark, mouth caught in that perpetual half-smile. “You ready?”

Junhui shuffles closer, face unchanging, and the shape of his lips is still distinct when Wonwoo takes off his spectacles in preparation, hanging them on his collar. He meets that big, blank gaze head on when he places a hand behind Junhui’s head, resting it where fuzz meets neck.

“Any day now,” Junhui quips, a blur of goading even as his hands come to rest loosely on Wonwoo’s hips. His upper lip peels away and reveals an unexpectedly tantalising flash of teeth, blindingly white.

Wonwoo splays his fingers against Junhui’s skull, feeling the small flex when he grins. “Stop talking,” he murmurs, and leans in, eyes involuntarily fluttering shut.

Junhui’s lips are soft, and, curious, Wonwoo briefly considers giving in to the urge to delve deeper, to press, to see if what he finds is anything like what he already knows –  

Wonwoo pulls away, bringing his hand with him. “There you go,” he says, and after a moment Junhui falls back as well, slower to react. His hands are limp by his side when Wonwoo slides his glasses back on. There’s a clap, and then another, and then a smattering of hesitant applause.

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung calls, and when he turns around Mingyu’s out cold on his lap, a small puddle of drool already beginning to form on leather jeans. “Help?”

“Ah, he’s done it again.” Wonwoo shuffles over, helps Soonyoung get Mingyu to his feet. “Sorry guys, but we gotta bail now. Thanks for the invite, ‘Cheol-hyung.”

Seungcheol’s distracted, if the way he’s chewing on his lip is any indication. “No, no, don’t worry about it,” he says, so Wonwoo doesn’t.

 

-

 

In middle school, Wonwoo had followed Junhui around everywhere, with an almost pathetic diligence. But it had been Junhui who’d done it first, kept sliding into the seat opposite him at recess, walked casually past him reading under _his_ tree during free periods, going as far as to tail him to the library when the entire grade knew the Chinese kid hated reading in Korean.

“What do you want,” he’d said one day, maybe two months into what he’d later jokingly call _borderline harassment_. Apparently ignoring the kid wasn’t going to work, and it was getting weird having some guy just watch you while you read.

“I’m Junhui,” the kid had said by means of reply, crooked teeth and an instantly proffered hand. “I just think you’re neat.”

“Okay,” fourteen-year-old Wonwoo had said, lowering his copy of _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_ to deliver a pointed look. Then he’d raised it back up again, hoping this token acknowledgment would get the kid to leave him alone so he could contemplate existence in peace.

But he’d been able to feel the gaze boring holes through four hundred pages and, unable to stand it much longer, had been forced to take note of his page and shut the book, placing it onto the table with a resigned _thunk_. “Yes?”

That hand again, shoved into his vision. Wonwoo had reluctantly shaken it, with no way to know he’d dropped a lit match onto the kindling of a personality, one that would burn obnoxiously furiously and come to be a bonfire.

 

-

 

It’s hard to imagine that’s how they started, with the way Wonwoo is now, fingers skittish over his phone screen. It’s open to his messenger conversation with Junhui, where the last thing he’d sent was _are you going for Cheol-hyung’s thing_ and received a cheery _of course!!! o(* >ω<*)o _in return. The cute face is staring at him, now, almost mocking in its fervent expression of joy.

He takes a deep breath, and begins to type. _Jun, can we pretend tha_

No. Exhaling, Wonwoo holds down the backspace button – there’s too much in that sentence. After a moment of thought, he tries again. _Junnie, are you okay?_

Not this, either – it’s on the other side of the spectrum, now, platitudinal and stale. Deleting that, as well, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, thinking. Then he taps out a message and sends it before he has the chance to overthink it, locking his phone and sliding it under his pillow.

It’s Sunday, the air slow and heavy around him. Wonwoo makes the executive decision to take his time making pancakes for once, knowing Soonyoung would appreciate the gesture. He puts on a podcast as he works, tuning out his thoughts in favour of listening to some nerd chatter away about vernal pools.

When Soonyoung emerges from his lair he’s glad for the company, and they eat with some idle conversation, after which the other leaves for dance practice. Left to his own devices, Wonwoo briefly contemplates leaving the house before deciding against it – he’d be afraid to leave without his phone in case he needs it for any reason, but that would defeat the point of hiding it away.

Eventually, he finds himself clicking mindlessly around in Civilisations, the ponderous task of governing a future larger than his own amusing for a few hours. When he tires of that, he rolls onto his bed and picks up a mindless novel, the serialisation of a manga that Soonyoung had all but begged him to read, and settles for that, instead.

Before he’s quite noticed, the sun has set, brilliant orange cutouts on his wall fading into inky darkness. Wonwoo only pulls out of the springtime drama of a group of high school boys when even squinting doesn’t make the words any clearer to him, resignation the final actor that pushes him off his mattress and to the kitchen to heat up leftovers for dinner.

Two plates of plain pasta and a _Running Man_ rerun later, morbid curiosity finally, finally wins out, and Wonwoo retrieves his phone, thumb trembling only _just_ so as he swipes it unlocked.

It’s another nanosecond of hesitation to key in his passcode, a flicker of doubt before he opens his messages. Heart crawling up his windpipe, it’s only when Wonwoo feels a stab of irritation at his own dithering that he locates Junhui’s chat and opens it.

_Jun, are you free next Saturday? (read 7.43 pm)_

He bites his lip, and puts his phone aside, and thinks, anyway, that it’s been a long day, and he ought to turn in early.

 

-

 

“I will not,” he’d said, gaze not leaving the fourth Murakami novel he’d read that week, indolently flipping a page.

“That’s the fourth Murakami novel you’ve read this week,” Junhui’d said, sharp eyes peering over like he could read the hangul upside down. He’d given up quickly, eyes crossing as he pronounced, “You need a new hobby.”

“Perhaps,” Wonwoo had allowed, gracious. “That’s what my gaming computer is for. I even play with you sometimes.”

“You mute me on the headset and then blame me when you die because you didn’t hear my calls. I deserve better treatment for all this grievous hurt, honestly.”

Only a smidgen guilty, Wonwoo’d pulled _Hard Boiled Wonderland_ closer to himself, resting in thought. “And you think theatre, of all things, is the solution to this?” He’d consider himself a lot of things, but stage-ready certainly wasn’t one of them.

He’d forgotten Junhui was impervious to sarcasm when directed towards his person. “Mhmm!” Bouncing up and down, he’d gently manhandled the book out of Wonwoo’s hands, slipping a dingy receipt from his pockets into it to mark his page for him. It was an oddly touching, if mildly unsanitary, gesture.

“Look, we get to hang out together and I get to do stage stuff! You can, like, be a backstage man, if you don’t like acting. I don’t wanna join alone, _pleaaaaase?_ ”

Even as he’d opened his mouth to articulate a rejection, Wonwoo could feel himself giving in. Junhui didn’t often ask for favours – as his certified only friend, he’d feel bad turning him down. “’Backstage man’?” he’d parroted, instead.

“So you’ll do it, right?” Junhui had gushed, both hands coming to find Wonwoo’s where they were awkwardly lying on the table, clasping them together in his own in not-quite-divine supplication. “You just, like, wear all black – which you already do, anyway – and move stuff sometimes. It’s easy and fun! And we’ll get to spend even more time together!”

“Hooray,” he’d intoned, not making a move to retrieve his hands.

And that had been that, really – he’d gone along as a favour to Junhui, who’d grown on him in spite of everything – and then, it seemed, grown on everyone who’d even approached a fifty metre radius of his being, his sudden popularity springing forth from a well of innate personability, a lovable profile, and repackaging as _that cute theatre kid_.

But Junhui was Junhui, and when, one day after practice, Minhyuk and Hyunwoo had paused mid-gush about his stage presence and incredible dancing to invite him to movie and a dinner with the other cast members, he’d laughed easily, nose crinkling as he’d jabbed a thumb back towards stage left, where Wonwoo was trying his best to lounge casually on a stage block as he waited.

“Nah, Wons and I have Video Game Wednesdays, and I can’t miss that. Thanks for the invite, though!”

Curious eyes had settled upon him for a second, taking in the all-black ensemble and presence of a moderately substantial shadow. “Right,” Minhyuk had said, shrugging. “Next time if you wanna come with, let us know. You can bring your friend if you want, yeah?” Next to him, Hyunwoo nodded in agreement.

He’d watched as Junhui’d grinned toothily in response, already backtracking towards stage left, finger guns at the ready. “I’ll let Wonwoo know!”

“You didn’t have to,” Wonwoo’d said simply, later, allowing Junhui to jostle his shoulder so he could perch his head on it, left arm entangled within both of Junhui’s own.

“Mrow mrow mrow mrow,” had come the agreeable reply, so, in compromise, Wonwoo had left him unmuted that evening.   

 

-

 

Wonwoo had tried reaching out, once. It had been first grade, years before Junhui had dropkicked himself into Wonwoo’s life. It had gone something like this:

 _(Art class. The children are assigned stationery and large white sheets of drawing block, with the vague theme of ‘animals’. They sit in clusters of five or six at low tables, a box of colour pencils to each table with a gentle exhortation to_ please share _.)_

_WONWOO: (Thinking) I like cats. I will draw Bubu, the stray cat that sits outside Mrs Kim’s house sometimes on my way home._

_(WONWOO reaches for a black colour pencil, and begins to draw. Delicately, he outlines Bubu’s ears and head, her four legs, her long, winding tail. He tries his best to detail her face, but only gets as far as two dots and a curly mouth. Still determined, he outlines her splotches, colouring in first the black.)_

_WONWOO: (Mumbling, barely audible) Bubu also has orange spots. Hmm…_

_(WONWOO surveys the table, only to find the orange pencil in the hands of a girl he thinks is named SOYEON. She is haphazardly colouring what appears to be a paper-eclipsing drawing of the sun.)_

_WONWOO: (Aside) The sun isn’t an animal, stupid._

_WONWOO:  SOYEON, can I please borrow the orange pencil for a while?_

_SOYEON: (Without looking up) No._

_WONWOO: Please? MS PARK said we have to share!_

_SOYEON: (Still without looking up) No! Stop disturbing me!_

_(Next to them, the other four CHILDREN start whispering and nudging each other. One laughs in WONWOO’s face.)_

_CHILD 1: Hey, stop disturbing SOYEON!_

_CHILD 2: (Calling) MS PARK, MS PARK! WONWOO won’t leave SOYEON alone!_

_(Mortified, WONWOO lowers his head in an attempt at shirking attention. The CHILDREN continue to jeer.)_

_MS PARK: What’s the matter?_

_CHILD 1: WONWOO was being mean to SOYEON!_

_MS PARK: What? WONWOO, we all have to play nice, okay? You’ll get your turn!_

_WONWOO: (Reaching for a yellow colour pencil) I… guess yellow works too._

He doesn’t have that drawing any more, although his mother had given it pride of place on the fridge for a few years, stuck high up where his short limbs couldn’t reach. Sometimes she brings it up, laughing, a _Wonwoo, remember the first cat drawing you brought home from school? The spots were yellow, it was just so cute!_

He’d never told her why they were the wrong colour, too stubborn to articulate the feelings he hadn’t liked having. So he laughs along every time, instead.

 

-

 

Five days later, Wonwoo’s lying on the couch scrolling mindlessly through cat Instagrams when Soonyoung bursts out of his room, bleached hair frizzy, and barrels to a stop in front of him, one finger extended in preemptive accusation.

“Yes,” Wonwoo says, tapping a like on a photo of three tabbies curled up in a basket together.

“You need to talk to someone, dude,” Soonyoung says, folding his arms together in front of his chest firmly. “You’ve been all out of it for a year.”

Wonwoo hums, eyes not leaving his screen. “Oh, is it time to graduate already? Thank fuck. I’ve been waiting forever.”

Sighing flatly, his roommate gently plucks his phone out of his hands between forefinger and thumb and pockets it, then looks squarely at him, one hand pushing briefly through his hair. “Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo slowly kicks his legs down, pulls himself into a sitting position, but rests the entirety of his weight on the back of the couch, head tipped back and eyes half lidded when he speaks. “It’s not that simple,” he mumbles.

Soonyoung looks at him for a few seconds, head tilted like visual perspective has a direct correlation with emotional. “What?”

“You know,” Wonwoo says. “This.”

Slowly, Soonyoung sits down on the arm of a chair. “Elaborate,” he says.

Wonwoo looks at him, then down at the hands he’s placed into his lap, and then back up, slowly. “Saturday,” he says at last, each syllable painstakingly enunciated.

“What?” Soonyoung starts, then – “Oh. _Oh_.” He’s standing up now, pacing to and fro in front of Wonwoo like there’s a problem he’s working out. “Jun?”

Wonwoo doesn’t answer, and when Soonyoung stops in his tracks to look at him it’s a few moments before he speaks again. “I’ve kissed half of you guys before drunk, and we’re all good, dude.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, completely without conviction. Soonyoung throws himself gracelessly onto the couch beside him, pulls one of his hands away from where the other is picking at his hangnails.

“You aren’t buying it,” he pronounces, lining up their palms in a hand sandwich, jogging them lightly. Wonwoo allows it, if only because it’s a less invasive way of being held, and looks away in lieu of an actual reply.

“And you won’t tell me what you’re thinking, either.”

“It’s not really that I don’t _want_ to, I just –“

Soonyoung cuts him off by covering his mouth with the hand he was holding. “Shh. Let me think.”

Wonwoo quiets, feeling at once ridiculous and slighted. Soonyoung drums his fingers against his thigh, the rhythm steadying like the lap of waves against shore. Then he says, slowly: “There's a lot at stake here, right?”

It seems so obvious, laid out like that in characteristic Soonyoung fashion. But it's a confrontation, anyway, and Wonwoo blinks rapidly, unable to keep up. It doesn’t matter – Soonyoung has never needed to wait for go-aheads.

“And I think,” he continues, “I think that’s what you’re not accepting. And as a result you think you’re waiting on one thing when it’s really something else altogether, larger than you want to admit.”

Wonwoo chews on his lower lip, wants to say _it’s not that deep_ , but saves himself the embarrassment of proving Soonyoung’s point. Even then, it must be clear on his face. His flatmate takes his hand again, plays with his knobbly fingers as he thinks.

“Okay. Um. Well. Do you remember when Mingyu got really upset when he found out we were sharing a flat sophomore year, and we got so annoyed because he would _not_ shut up about how much closer it was to campus than his?”

The memory – a slot of time saturated with Mingyu’s dramatics – brings a sliver of a smile to Wonwoo’s face. “Ah, yes. The tantrums.”

Soonyoung nods. “The tantrums. And it was really dumb ‘cause he knew that we knew that his lease was three years long, so honestly it seemed like a non-issue to us.”

“I don’t follow, but yes. I remember.”

A roll of the eyes. “I’m getting to it. Anyway. He was dramatic for what – two months?”

“Ten weeks.”

“Yeah, so two months, until Shua-hyung went to ask him about it and figured out he wasn’t mad about convenience, he was just upset that we’d never talked to him about it and it was like. You know. Your best buds from high school just running off and forgetting you, leaving you behind, stuff like that.” He raises his brows meaningfully.

Wonwoo huffs in a small measure of defeat. “Yeah, that was pretty dumb.”

Pursing his lips, Soonyoung squeezes Wonwoo’s hand in his own. “ _So_ ,” he urges, “That’s exactly what’s happening now.”

When Wonwoo doesn’t reply except to squint critically in his direction, he continues. “And I think that you… need to think about how much it is that you think you’re missing. And then multiply that by maybe fifty times, because I’ve never seen you this out of it, and I remember the fallout when your Steam account got locked.”

“I’m not out of it,” Wonwoo quips automatically. “And don’t bring up the lowest point of my life, that’s unkind.”

Soonyoung just looks at him, squinting his eyes so hard they crease into twin lines. “Just think about it,” he exhorts eventually, and pats Wonwoo on the knee. “And shove over. I wanna watch TV.”

Obligingly, Wonwoo obeys the latter command, but very obstinately avoids any contemplation of the first.

_Junhui, please. Can you talk to me? (read 02.21 am)_

 

-

 

After middle school, Junhui had moved a town or two over, and attended high school there instead – Wonwoo never quite got around to asking after the details. There was too much growing up to do, here, cast out again alone into a sea of developing personalities bent on abusing this newfound concept of self-assertion.

He'd been lucky enough to meet Mingyu and Soonyoung through a slew of shared classes, the former perpetually causing a scene (always on accident, but classrooms had so many table legs, and Mingyu's two didn't listen to him often) and the latter always ready for a laugh. It suited Wonwoo fine enough – they did all the speaking for him until he wanted to participate, and then laughed at his jokes when he did.

So – in spite of all the vagaries of life and proverbial tumult of high school – Wonwoo had escaped unscathed, if a little bit harder of hearing from overexposure to the combination of Mingyu's yelping and Soonyoung's riotous cackles.

And then it’d seemed a natural consequence to head on to the same university, hours bleeding together into a coagulation of headaches with how long they'd study in the living room of Mingyu's expansive flat, oversized, they’d joke, like he was.

It wasn’t until that winter, when Wonwoo had been heading back to the dorms with Soonyoung, that he’d seen a brown head that looked oddly familiar, had found himself peeling an old name off the back of his tongue by dubious streetlight.

Junhui had turned, already smiling, laughing around Wonwoo’s name like it was a warm flavour in his mouth, cheap lamplight illuminating his cheekbones and sparking in his dark, dark eyes. _Is that really you?_

Disbelieving, Wonwoo had plodded up to him, placed hands where the light touched his shoulders, dusting stray snowflakes away. _Yeah. Whoa. Didn’t think I’d – Well. Um. How’ve you been?_

He’d smiled, then, all white teeth and crescent eyes, shadows long and steep under fluorescence. _Better now that you’re here_. How very like him, to avoid the question and parry with a flirtatious remark.

Sometimes, looking at Junhui is like gazing directly into the sun. Wonwoo rubs at his eyes, dry again, and tries not to think too hard about what that means.

 

-

 

“Hey, you heading to Jun’s party?”

Mingyu announces his presence, more often than not, by not doing so at all, sliding into the seat opposite Wonwoo’s in the cafeteria. He pouts exaggeratedly, lower lip curling into the upper when his unwilling conversational partner swipes a few fries off his tray.

“I …don’t think so,” Wonwoo says, slowly, after a thoughtful amount of chewing and a sip from Mingyu’s cola. It does nothing to the cavern that has suddenly carved itself out between his lungs, but he swallows anyway. “I’m not free that – whenever it is.”

“You aren’t?” Mingyu scrunches his face up like Wonwoo’s the keypad to his apartment when he’s blackout drunk. “You sure? It’s his birthday, aren’t you guys like, best friends from middle school, or something?” His chewing is noisy as he juggles eating and speaking simultaneously, the stray morsel making a defiant leap for freedom.

Wonwoo sighs, and reaches over to push a lock of hair out of Mingyu’s eyes so he can be properly cross-eyed by his burger, mustering a half-assed smile when he receives a blinding grin of thanks in return for the gesture. For a while he lets himself be distracted by Mingyu’s tuneless, carefree humming, the occasional chortle at something funny he must see on his timeline.

“Or something,” he agrees, eventually, and leaves it at that.

 

-

 

“You should go,” Soonyoung mumbles from the other end of the couch, toes brushing against Wonwoo’s right knee. “This Friday. 8pm. You know where his apartment is.”

Wonwoo breathes out, all the way, idly testing his lung capacity. He gets to thirty-five before there is an insistent nudge at his kneecap, sharp even through the material of his pajama pants. “What?”

From over here, Soonyoung’s not much more than a cross squint half-cast in shadow. “You know what,” he mutters.

He chews on his lip in reply. “Maybe.”

Soonyoung actually laughs at that, a bark like the time Mingyu tripped over a girl while he was looking for her for his promposal. She’d still said yes. “You’ll be there, and it’ll be fine.”

Wonwoo resolutely does not think about the read receipts, the way he’s been spoken _around_ in their group chats for weeks. “Maybe,” he repeats, familiar now with the way it settles, heavy on his tongue.

 

-

 

He does, anyway. At twenty minutes past ten that Friday, Wonwoo gingerly steps out of his shoes at the door to Junhui’s flat, decisively placing them within clear line of sight of the door, should he require to make a quick exit. From out here, he can hear the trap beats of some rapper pulsing through the air – it reminds him that this space is shared with a faceless roommate, likely the person who wouldn’t let Junhui play sorrowful ballads at his own birthday party.

He takes a breath, patting himself down out of reflex. A convenience store bag rustles from where it’s hanging off one bony wrist and he grimaces – he’d forgotten it was there. Someone arrives, shucks off their shoes and saunters in, barely sparing him a glance as they go. Wonwoo watches, briefly, the way they fold into the buzz, eaten whole.

He’s stalling. So he wills his foot over the threshold, right, then left, until he remembers walking is easy, and pushes into the noise.

The apartment isn’t too large, he knows, from the few times he’s been there, but it’s difficult to tell with the number of people present, on couches, against walls, on each other. It’s thoroughly uncharacteristic, for Junhui, but so is kissing a friend and ignoring him for a few weeks straight.

There’s a first time for everything.

Wonwoo runs a hand through his hair nervously, sidesteps a guy in a varsity jacket wobbling by holding five bottles of soju. Dimly, in the back of his head, he tries to calculate when the last train is, the last bus, if he really should’ve come.

“Heeeeey. I know you.” A slender figure comes into view, black graphic tanktop and too many metal chains. He flicks a long bang out of his eye as he speaks, arms folding together lazily. “Jeon Wonwoo, right?”

Wonwoo blinks very slowly, remembering all of a sudden that he’d thrown on a university tee in his distracted haste to leave. “Uh, yes.” The face is familiar, somehow, but he can’t place it.

The kid picks up on his hesitation, raising one neat eyebrow in a facial shrug. “Minghao. Junhui’s roommate.” He gestures around, vaguely. “Want anything? I hear the _makgeolli_ ’s a hit.” He has quite a few piercings. Wonwoo stares at a long chain dangling from his left ear, twinkling faintly in the low light.

He shakes his head dumbly. “No, I uh. Won’t be staying long.” Then, “Thanks.”

Minghao slots his long pale arms together again, head cocking to one side. “Suit yourself,” he says, eyes roaming perfunctorily over Wonwoo’s form. “Junhui’s in the kitchen.”

Wonwoo raises his gaze without having realised he’d dropped it, but Minghao’s already gone. Exhaling softly, he turns for the kitchen.

It’s relatively empty when he gets there, the odd person or two pushing past to retrieve more liquor from the table. Junhui’s curled up on a stool by the kitchen counter, somehow fitting his feet and entire self onto the seat portion, sipping from a plastic cup and watching a variety show on his phone.

“Happy birthday,” Wonwoo blurts, shoving the plastic bag forward, the little _GS25_ logo spinning around as he does. Junhui startles with a squawk, both legs falling off the stool and hitting the floor with graceless thuds. His drink spills onto his dark jeans, but he doesn’t seem to notice, face frozen in surprise.

His jaw works once, twice. “Wonwoo! Ididn’texpecttoseeyouhere!” It’s a giveaway, the way his words trip over each other, spill into the tiny kitchen. He doesn’t make to reach for the plastic bag. His mouth stays open for a beat too long, before he remembers to close it.

Wonwoo purses his lips, suddenly guilty. “Your video’s still running,” he says, pointing at the phone in Junhui’s hand. Then he takes a step forward and drops the bag in the other’s lap, retreating to a safe distance before he speaks. “Anyway. Just wanted to give you that. Sorry for turning up uninvited. I’ll go now.”

“Wonwoo, wait.”

He turns back, slowly, gaze rigid. Junhui’s fidgeting with the plastic in his hands, the aluminium of the snack packaging visible when he wrinkles it just so. “Can you sit down?”

Wonwoo weighs the options, briefly debates leaving out of spite. “I have to catch the bus back,” he says, but pulls a seat over, sitting opposite Junhui, who smiles wanly at him.

“You know these are best shared,” Junhui says, tearing the packet open. “Jelly snack?”

Wonwoo leans over to take one, automatically, but retreats to his own corner quickly enough. “Are you going to talk to me now,” he says, looking at the floor, tangling his fingers with each other. Outside, he can hear chanting of Soonyoung and Minghao’s names. Dance battle, probably.

“Sorry,” Junhui says, immediately. “I shouldn’t have ignored you for so long I just didn’t….” He shrugs helplessly, mouth twisted into something resembling a grin. “I’m sorry,” he addends lamely.

There’s an itch building somewhere in Wonwoo’s cranium, but he tries to shrug it off. “Yeah, but why’d you do it?”

“I don’t … know what you’re talking about?” Junhui tries, and Wonwoo doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling that smile, the one with the corners gone strange, eyeline restless. It’ll take too long.

Suddenly impatient, he unfolds, and crosses the short distance between them. “Are you drunk,” he starts, eyeing the cup Junhui has since abandoned.

“I was going to be, later… No.”

“Good.” Wonwoo takes his hand, pulls him firmly to his feet. “Would you kiss me?”

Junhui frowns at this, pulls away a little bit. When he speaks his voice pitches here and there, gaze trained on the opposite wall. “Wonwoo. I don’t know what you’re –“ He rubs at his eyes, like he’s been staring too hard at something too bright. “Look, if this is about Cheol-hyung’s party, I’m _sorry,_ but you aren’t – aren’t really helping – ”

“It’s just a question, Junhui. Nothing else.” Unconsciously, his thumb rubs circles on the hand he hasn’t let go. “Just answer it. Please.”

Junhui opens his mouth, closes it again. Opens it, then – “Don’t you have a bus to catch?”

He’s so transparent that Wonwoo laughs, softly, in spite of himself. “Junnie. Would you?” Suddenly conscious of their singular point of contact, he lets go, takes half a step back. Feels compelled to add, “’No’ is an answer, too.”

Junhui looks at him then, and his gaze is heavy on Wonwoo’s skin. “It’s not my answer, though,” he says, very small and low, blinking too many beats per count. He lowers his gaze and exhales, a brief respite before looking back up, earnest. “I meant it, then.”

Wonwoo huffs out a laugh, a disbelieving sound. “And yet you thought you’d go and leave me in the lurch for – no. No. Never mind.” The tension is draining, slowly, but it still takes a second before he can continue.

“Then I’ll ask you this.” Junhui visibly perks up, cocking his head lightly in question as he waits. “Will you?”

For the first time in a while, Junhui smiles, properly, and it tilts the world back onto its axis, like time is allowed to flow normally again.

“Please,” he says, fond, and does.

 

-

 

“You didn’t come back last night,” the couch groans, accusingly, when Wonwoo steps into his apartment on Saturday morning.

“I didn’t,” Wonwoo agrees, padding to the kitchen to fetch aspirin and a glass of water as tribute to the blanketed creature. “I missed the last bus.”

There’s a comfortable silence as the pills and water disappear into the void. Wonwoo props his face on his hand and watches as Soonyoung emerges. “How’d I get here,” he slurs, hand splayed over his eyes. “Why’d you wake me, you anthropomorphised long bean.”

Wonwoo hums, removing the glass and placing it safely on a table. “Probably Mingyu. He said the last hangover drove him teetotal for the semester.” Patting his roommate comfortingly on the head, he adds, “You can go back to sleep. It’s Saturday.”

“No, no, ‘m fine,” Soonyoung grumbles, rolling onto his side to squint unhappily up. “So how’d it go? Okay?”

Wonwoo shrugs, tossing his reply over his shoulder as he goes, phone heavy in his pocket. “Maybe. Dibs on the shower.”

Defeated, the couch monster makes a wail of despair, and collapses back upon itself.

-

**Chat with Junhui**

_hey wonu i wanted to say (10.02 am)_

_thanks for coming to me. (10.03 am)_

_i was scared (10.03 am)_

_i guess (10.03 am)_

_and i couldn’t even say this in person but (10.03 am)_

_thank u….. (10.03 am)_

_(^_ _・_ _ω_ _・_ _^ ) (10.03am)_

_(10.04 am) Don’t mention it._

_(10.04 am) …Ah, now it’s weird._

_(10.07 am) Lunch on Sunday?_

_ok! <3_ _ヽ_ _(=^_ _･_ _ω_ _･_ _^=)_ _丿_ _(10.07 am)_

_(10.07am) :)_

_(10.07am) See you then._

 

**Author's Note:**

> u know the drill. yell at me on [tweeter](http://twitter.com/frogbaby). i am very lonely Please


End file.
